Chapter 77 Strength to stand
IRIS
The morning comes too fast.
I roll over, groggy and unready, the cold edge of dawn slicing through my bedroom blinds. I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, hoping maybe I’d dreamed everything from the porch, the silence, the promise of training, the weight of a war I didn’t choose.
But reality sits heavy in my chest, right where sleep used to be.
I throw off the covers and dress slowly. Black leggings, a fitted long-sleeve top, and sneakers. Something practical. Something I can move in. I pull my hair into a loose tie and glance at the phone on my nightstand.
Still nothing from Darian.
A hollow pang hits me again, same as yesterday. I tuck the phone into my drawer and shut it. Out of sight. Out of reach.
On my way out, Nana offers me a cup of coffee with a smile, and I take it from her. I needed it.
“Did you sleep well?” She asks, tucking errant strands of hair behind my ear. I take a swig from my coffee before shaking my head ‘no’ in response.
“Well, let’s hope the training goes well.” She says with concern laced in her tone and I can’t help but hope the same.
I finish up with my coffee and head outside.
The air outside is cool, the kind that bites but doesn’t break skin.
I find my grandfather in the clearing beyond the barn, a wide patch of flattened grass surrounded by trees that look older than time. He’s already there, standing still, arms crossed, wearing a thermal shirt and track pants, his breath fogging faintly in the air.
He looks at me once, nods, then gestures to the center of the space.
“This is yours now,” he says. “Might not look like much, but it’s where you’ll learn what your body’s capable of.”
I take a few steps forward. The grass is slick beneath my shoes. “And if it turns out I’m not capable of much?”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t scold. Just says, “Then we keep going until you are.”
I sigh and plant myself where he pointed.
“First,” he says, stepping closer, “we start with your breath. You breathe wrong, you move wrong. You move wrong, you fall.”
I arch a brow. “Breathing sounds easy.”
He raises one finger. “Then do it right. Close your eyes.”
I hesitate but obey.
The silence returns, heavy and expectant. A bird chirps once in the distance, and I try to focus on the sound of my own breath. In. Out. But my mind keeps racing, images of Darian, the fear of not knowing what is to come.
“Stop thinking,” my grandfather says, calm but firm.
“You’re not in your body yet. You’re still in your head. Breath brings you back.”
I suck in air and hold it too long. When I exhale, it’s shaky.
“Again,” he says.
We do this for what feels like forever. My calves begin to ache. The wind cuts across my skin. I open my eyes once and find him still, watching me like a hawk. Not with judgment, but with expectation.
Eventually, something shifts. The noise dulls. My breath steadies. My feet feel heavier. Planted.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Now movement.”
He steps into the clearing with me, barefoot now, and lowers into a stance I’ve only ever seen in movies, knees bent, one foot slightly back, hands raised loosely but ready.
“You can’t shift into your wolf yet,” he says. “So you start like any human would. Balance first. You’re no good to anyone if you can’t stay standing.”
I try to mimic him. My knees wobble a little.
“Lower,” he says. “You’re not posing for a photo. Sink into it.”
I adjust, trying to keep my back straight. “Feels weird.”
“Good. New things should.”
We spend the next hour going over basic positioning. Where my feet should go. How to move without losing center. It’s meticulous. Maddening. Every time I think I’ve nailed it, he corrects me.
“You’re thinking again,” he says.
“I’m trying not to.”
“Try less. Feel more.”
That frustrates me more than it should. I grit my teeth and move again, this time overcorrecting. My foot slides, and I fall hard onto the cold grass.
“Good,” he says simply, offering no hand to help me up.
I glare up at him. “That was good?”
“You fell. Now you learn.”
I push myself up, brushing mud from my leg.
“This isn’t fighting,” I mutter. “It’s choreography.”
“It’s the foundation,” he replies. “Without it, you’re just flailing.”
I want to argue. I want to storm off. But part of me knows he’s right.
“Again,” he says.
I get into position.
We do this until my legs burn, my lungs sting, and my temper starts to fray at the edges.
Finally, he steps back. “Let’s see if you can take a push.”
I straighten. “What kind of push?”
He walks toward me slowly. “The kind you’ll be getting when someone wants you dead.”
I stiffen, pulse quickening. “Is this your way of motivating me?”
“It’s my way of reminding you what this is. It’s not exercise. It’s survival.”
Then, without warning, he lunges, not to hurt me, but to test me. His hands shove at my shoulders, and I stumble back, barely staying upright.
“Too loose,” he says. “Again.”
This time I try to brace. I plant my feet deeper. He pushes, and I hold my ground, just barely.
“Better,” he says. “Still sloppy.”
We repeat this again and again. My muscles scream. My jaw tightens. And then finally, when I dig my heels in and he pushes, I don’t move.
He nods. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I breathe hard, sweat on my neck, arms shaking. “So what’s next? You going to throw me across the clearing?”
“No,” he says, blatantly ignoring the sarcasm in my voice. “Now you learn to strike.”
The air shifts. Something colder enters his tone.
He shows me how to throw a basic punch, shoulder aligned, wrist straight, hips engaged. I mimic it poorly, and he corrects me over and over until I finally land one punch into the padded target on his arm that actually makes him nod in approval.
It’s satisfying. Surprising, even. For the first time since Darian left, I feel a flicker of something that isn’t fear.
Control. Maybe even power.
But it doesn’t last.
“You’ll never outmatch someone with strength alone,” he says, lowering his arm. “Especially not if they shift. But if you can control your body, control your mind, you can stay alive long enough to decide what comes next.”
I wipe my forehead with my sleeve. “And what does come next?”
His expression darkens slightly. “That depends on what Darian’s silence really means.”
I feel that pang again. The hole in my chest is widening.
He sees it but says nothing more.
Instead, he steps back. “That’s enough for today.”
Relief washes over me, followed quickly by a wave of soreness I didn’t realize I was holding off.
I walk a few steps toward the edge of the clearing and stop, looking back at him.
“You’re hard on me,” I say.
He crosses his arms. “I have to be.”
“Because I’m not able to shift yet?”
“Because of what’s coming.”
I nod slowly, the ache in my legs reminding me that change doesn’t come without pain.
As I start back toward the house, I glance once more over my shoulder. My grandfather hasn’t moved. He stands where I left him, watching the trees, silent and still.
I don’t know what’s waiting out there.
But I know I won’t meet it unprepared.